Page 12 of Finding London

The three of us hang out, chatting and laughing at one story after the next, while Cooper and Maggie have a few beers. I’m always the DD, and that works for me since I don’t drink. I have no judgments toward people who do, but I decided a long time ago that it wasn’t something I would do.

Growing up, I lived with a heavy drinker for a period—three years, to be exact. It was not only the longest I was ever placed with someone, but it was also, by far, the most difficult time of my life. At the age of seven, I learned what alcohol could turn some people into. I know it wouldn’t have the same effect on me—I would never allow that—but getting drunk and losing myself has never interested me. Not only can the smell of liquor take me back to that very dark time, but the thought of losing any of my control is also terrifying. I need power over my life, my actions, in order to function.

So, of course, I picked the one profession where I have none. When the military gives you an order, you do it. No discussions. No questions. No choice. But, I suppose, where my job is concerned, having no control is actually calming in a way.

“You guys ready?” I ask Maggie and Cooper.

All the way to Ann Arbor, Maggie rambles on about the band we’re about to see. I’ve never heard of them, but apparently, they are DJs with a techno flair. According to Maggie, that means they play a lot of covers of popular songs, but they spice them up a bit. Should be interesting.

I park in the parking garage, and we walk across the street to the club. Every time the bouncer opens the door to let someone in, the loud music escapes, sending steady beats of bass down the street.

The second we step foot into the club, Maggie is bouncing up and down, giddy with excitement. The place is packed. As we weave our way through the crowded space, I notice how each person seems to be holding or wearing something that glows in bright neon. Glow-stick bracelets, necklaces, headbands, and belts are apparently all the rage.

A smile crosses my face as we pass some chick laughing hysterically while she repeatedly hits some guy on the head with a foam glow sword. The ten-dollar cover was worth it just for the show the audience is bringing. Being the sober one is where it’s at.

Near the back, we find a space large enough for the three of us to stand comfortably. Cooper says something to Maggie, eliciting a nod from her, before he heads in the direction of the bar.

Maggie is raising her hands in the air and swaying to the music as she shouts out the lyrics. Cooper returns and hands me a Coke.

“Thanks, man!” I yell over the music.

He nods toward me with a smile and wraps his arms around Maggie from behind. The two of them start dancing together without missing a beat. If I were honest with myself, I’d have to admit that I envy the relationship they share. Knowing them both as well as I do, I believe, without a doubt, that neither one would ever hurt the other. They are in it for the long haul. A tiny longing resonates within me. A small hope that I could find that sort of connection with someone enters my mind before I immediately shut it down. I’ve learned that any amount of hope, no matter how small, is dangerous.

Something pulls my attention toward the front of the club. My eyes scan the area—searching for what, I don’t know. Yet it’s there—a feeling, a presence, a whisper—and I can’t ignore it.

It doesn’t take me long to figure out what I’ve been looking for. Theresheis, like a beacon sending a signal meant for me. My hand grips tightly to the cool glass containing the iced pop, my thumb slipping across the condensation. The beverage begins to fall from my hand before I reposition my hold. Turning, I place it on a ledge and wipe my damp palms against my jeans.

What are the odds?

I stare at the wall. My heart is thrumming wildly in my chest.

I suppose it’s not that surprising. This city isn’t that big, and the fact that she would like the same band as Maggie isn’t that surprising either.But still.

I haven’t been able to get my mind off of her all week, and I don’t understand it.And, now, she’s here. If I were interested in finding someone—I’m not—she would be the opposite of the type of person I’d be looking for.

I breathe deeply, pulling the energy-charged hot air of the club into my lungs, before turning back toward her. She’s probably thirty feet away, far enough that I can watch her without her noticing. And she hasn’t realized that I’m here yet, as far as I can tell. She and another girl dance with abandon, similar to the way in which Maggie is moving next to me.

Her long hair is curled, the loose spirals bouncing against her bare shoulders as she moves. The kaleidoscopes of colors shining from the stage lights emit ever-changing bursts that alter the hue of her hair every few seconds. But I know the true shade.

I can close my eyes and picture it clear as day. I’ve imagined how silky her light-brown locks would feel against my skin. The color—so rich with varying shades of chocolate but with a hint of blonde when in the sun—has been present in my mind all week, regardless of my attempt to block it out.

I can’t see her eyes from here, but I can picture them just as clearly. Her eyes mirror her hair with their different shades of brown. Every time she looked at me at that car wash, they appeared marginally different, an intriguing melody of browns with flecks of greens and golds.

I push my hand through my short hair in frustration.What is wrong with me?I shouldn’t care less about the damn flecks of her irises or the freaking hint of blonde in her hair. I spoke very few words to her a week ago. I shouldn’t even remember her damn name, but I do.

London.

If she only knew what that name did to my heart when she said it in the bank parking lot. But she wouldn’t know. How could she?

It has to be the name that has me all jacked up over this girl. It’s definitely not the girl.

London is gorgeous, no doubt, but she’s not the type I would normally sleep with. She’s too beautiful, and she knows it. Not to mention, I can’t stand stuck-up, rich, entitled little bitches who think they are owed everything they want simply because they exist.

Those types of girls remind me of a family I briefly stayed with when I was in between homes in my early teens. The Bakerfields appeared to be living the American dream. They had a grand house that was entirely too big for the three of them, fancy clothes, and lots of expensive cars. They were rich, by most people’s standards. They had this daughter who was a couple of years older than me, Caroline. Man, she was a cruel, evil bitch. I hated her. I’m not sure why they took in foster kids, no matter how brief. I think Mr. Bakerfield was in politics. It had to be for show—the whole charade of taking in poor, parentless kids—like a résumé builder of some sort. It definitely wasn’t because they cared.

I realize I know little about the type of person London truly is, but I’d bet money that I’m right. I guarantee she’s from a rich family who gives her everything she’s ever wanted. She probably hasn’t had to actually work a day in her pampered life. No matter how beautiful she is or how my body betrays me in its attraction to her, she will never be a girl that I want to be with.

I hate the fact that I’m in this dark bar with endless things to look at, yet all I see is her. Despite my attempts to stop, my focus is drawn to her. She seems to glow—and not because of the neon hues of the glow sticks. No, she’s so much brighter. She’s a light I can’t ignore. I need to, I want to, but I simply can’t.

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